


The Tumults of Being Out-Numbered

by ApprenticedMagician



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Gen, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, Meet-Cute, Single Parents, does it count as a meet-cute if you already know each other??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24598564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticedMagician/pseuds/ApprenticedMagician
Summary: Jean Moreau, composed and morose as ever, is enjoying a perfectly uninteresting and elongated session of a self-pity retail therapy at the mall when he almost trips over a child.
Relationships: Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	The Tumults of Being Out-Numbered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [makebelieveanything](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makebelieveanything/gifts).



> An exchange gift for makebelieveanything - so many of your prompts included children, which I've never written, and then I was foolish enough to get sucked into The Untamed and blatantly stole the plot of the one date the main ship ever gets to have. So I hope you enjoy!

Jean Moreau, composed and morose as ever, is enjoying a perfectly uninteresting and elongated session of retail therapy at the mall when he almost trips over a child. He stumbles forward hard in a false start and gets pinned down by a sudden weight dropping to his left knee. It’s a good thing he doesn’t fall to the floor; his hands are full of shopping bags and he wouldn’t have caught himself well, probably further agitating the old shoulder injury that stole his career in pro exy.

“...Daddy??”

Oh no.

A small child, no older than four or five, has latched onto his left leg, tiny arms wrapped in a bear hug that’s only getting tighter. Her big blue eyes are steadily watering, dirty blonde hair wild and untamed with spiky waves. She wears an exy jersey, sporting number 61 for the Las Vegas Devils. (‘Katerina Petrova,’ his mind supplies, retaining updated exy stats despite Jean’s leaving the sport seven years ago.)

“Um,” Jean says, not sure what to say except: “No?”

Rather than nod at the misunderstanding, thank him for his input, and set him free to find her real father – like he had hoped – she begins sinking down to the floor, still hugging his leg, and begins a soft and snotty wail.

Jean can feel people staring, sees a couple of them lean in close to make remarks, but no one saves him.

“There, there,” he says, entirely lost. He shimmies his leg a little, trying to shake her off so that at least he can get his proper balance back. Her crying grows louder and her grip gets fiercer. The passersby grow a little more outspoken.

“Don’t you know how to comfort your own daughter?” asks a woman whose opinion no one has requested.

“Men,” says a passing lady, who shakes her head with all its perfect extensions and strides around him without a second glance.

“She’s not mine –” he tries to explain but the child’s crying becomes a shriek that cuts him off.

“Aww,” comes from a grey-haired man, who is at least approaching Jean with sympathetic eyes. “Someone’s having a bit of a meltdown, I see.”

Hoping the man can help him, Jean says desperately, “She won’t let go.”

The man hums with the wisdom of the elderly. “Daughters are always tricky for first-time fathers. You’ll find your way, it just takes time.”

Great. That sage advice was totally helpful and applicable to him _right now._

“You should try candy!” boasts another onlooker, bounding over. “Keeps their mouths busy, worked like a charm on my daughters. Pretty soon I brought candy with me everywhere I went.” He pulls out a lollipop from his pocket in demonstration and bends down to offer it to the girl.

“Hey there,” he says, waving the candy to successfully catch her attention. “I’m Bradley. What’s your name?”

With great effort, she trickles out a name past her tears. “Mia.”

Bradley looks suitably impressed. “How pretty! Well, Mia, I’m sure your dad didn’t mean what he said to you. He wants you to have this, okay?”

She’s still sniffling a little, small hiccups from emotional upset, but she shakes her head and doesn’t reach for the lolly. Instead she pulls on Jean’s pantleg, as though she’s trying to hide herself behind his slim cut denims. Or maybe she's just clearing her face of fluids, because he would swear she had just rubbed her face all over it. “Not allowed,” she mumbles.

“Ah! Trying to make you grow up healthy, is he? Well, he can hold on to it for you.” Bradley drops the candy (and an extra few) into one of Jean’s many shopping bags. He stands straight again and claps Jean on the shoulder – the once injured shoulder. “You’ll get there man. Good luck!”

He leaves, along with the rest of the crowd now that Mia has gone quiet. Jean has no idea what to do. His dog, Muffin, was a stray in the alley behind work before he followed Jean and his lunch of cheese home and then Jean was just saddled with a dog, but he can’t do that with this child. He is sure there are laws against it, kidnapping and such. He could just stay put with her and wait to be found, like every survival guide advises, but after such a public outcry, he’s sure Mia’s father would have come forward if he was anywhere close.

Unsure, he turns to Mia and asks, “Where was your father shopping?”

She shakes her head into his leg. She must not know.

“Was he shopping for clothes?”

She nods. Which is progress, even if it isn’t the most helpful. Most the stores in here sell clothes, though a few are exclusive to women’s fashion. Mia’s father probably isn’t in one of those. Unless he’s shopping for her mother, and now Jean’s back to not having narrowed the search field at all.

Then she says, “Clothes for Mason.”

“Who’s Mason?”

“Big brother. He doesn’t like me.”

Well damn. Jean has no idea where one should shop for a young boy’s clothes. But the presence of a disgruntled brother might explain how Mia got separated in the first place. He’s unwittingly reminded of his own sister, Amélie, and wonders if she still remembers how he used to tease her and purposely mess up her braids.

He wonders if she was glad their parents sent him away.

“That might change when you’re older,” he tells her, not sure if it’s true since he has no way to consult his own sister.

He wonders if Amélie Moreau is even still alive. Maybe she’s lain to rest in a grave he will never find. Maybe she’s blissfully in love and married with a child just like this one.

The excitement of the meltdown is receding and he can feel his mind slipping into the dark space that occupies his oldest life. He has to help Mia before it settles there. But what should he –?

_“Mia Rowe, Mia Rowe, we have your father waiting for you at customer services. Mia Rowe.”_

Jean breaths a sigh of relief. He’s never had any problem following instruction. When he looks at how Mia’s still sitting on the floor, he carefully transfers all his bags to one hand, then reaches out and says, “Let’s go.”

The supposed Mr. Rowe he expects to find at customer services turns out to be: 1) a lot shorter than his estimates and 2) not a man named Rowe at all.

It’s Jeremy Freaking Knox whose having a minor aneurysm and slowly pulling his hair out at the desk, tapping his feet so he doesn’t pace, a second child sitting on the floor beside him, perhaps guarding their purchases with all his ten-or-so year-old strength.

“...Jeremy?”

He turns with a jump, spooked eyes widening upon seeing Jean, but then darting just as quickly to the girl clutching his hand. “Mia!”

Jeremy rushes forward, kneeling down to sweep the girl into his arms and hold her close. His hand is patting through her hair and Jean wishes he didn’t want to know what it felt like. If all of Mia’s fears and troubles were soothed away at such a simple touch, granted to her for no other reason than she was cherished.

He thinks Jeremy is berating her in some way, soft chastisement whispered into soft hair, but Jean isn’t paying attention. He wasn’t counting on running into a reminder of everything he’s lost and he definitely wasn’t counting on how it would make him feel: like there’s a sun bursting under his skin and even the dark space isn’t enough to shield him from the burns.

He turns to leave.

“Wait! Jean!”

Half of him had thought Jeremy didn’t recognize him. He wonders if his horoscope today mentions anything about running into old friends. He’ll have to check.

“Sorry if she caused any trouble,” Jeremy says, dusting off hands that had passed Mia off to Mason for the time-being. Mason is entertaining her by showing off all his new clothes. “She and Mason got into a disagreement and she ran off before we could resolve things.”

Jean nods. He understands. “No trouble,” he says, even though there was, a little. Then he says, with confused lilt in his voice, “Your name isn’t Rowe.”

Jean knew the roster of every pro team in the States despite making no active effort to investigate – he’s pretty sure he would have heard news of a wedding if there had been one.

“Ah, no, no it isn’t. Mia and Mason are my foster kids. We were just updating our summer wardrobes – they’ve grown like weeds over the last year.”

That explained things. Jeremy always was good at taking in strays. The only reason he officially adopted Muffin is because Jean tried to imagine how Jeremy would handle a dog following him home.

“It’s so unexpected to see you! What has it been, five years?”

“Seven,” Jean corrects, forcing the memory of their last parting out of his head.

The USC Trojans were supposed to be a new beginning for him. Jean had been one game short of finishing his final collegiate season when a different new beginning eclipsed all his future plans. Per Jean’s insistence, Jeremy had left the hospital to attend their final match, where he got scouted and moved on to the pros without Jean. At the time, Jean had thought he could join him (and Neil and Kevin) later after some physical therapy but his body never recovered enough. Too much strain, too much trauma, and his body had finally said _‘enough’._ In the end, he’d been too bitter about it all to attend their graduation and then he’d blocked all their numbers when they pestered him with messages.

He has moved on, somewhat. Bilingualism opened several paths and he translates quite frequently for companies who want to market in Europe, proof-reading manuals and voicing instructional videos. It’s well-paying and purposeful work, nothing like what he has been valued for in the past. He finds himself wanting to tell Jeremy all about it, wants even more badly to ask if Laila and Alvarez ever made it to law school.

Jeremy wears these missing years as though they’re nothing more than spiderwebs to shrug off and overcome. He beams and says, “So much time! I’d love to catch up on everything you’ve been up to. Can we have you for dinner? Does tomorrow work?”

Jean thinks he should say no, but the more time he takes to answer, the more he realizes there’s no real reason to decline. So, he says, “Yes” and ignores how his insides have begun to vigorously test their new wings.

He leaves the mall with a new number in his phone and three lollipops in his bag.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
